Some Days Are Like That
Copyright (c) 1995, Ed Davis
All rights reserved



                              SOME DAYS ARE LIKE THAT
                                 by Ed Davis

         Raymond Martin scuffed his tennis shoes across the two lanes of
      asphalt that were Willow Lane, leaned against the galvanized pipe
      holding the Bus Stop sign aloft, and sighed deeply.  The early morning
      freshness eased a tiny part of his frustrations, but left enough to
      keep the frown lines deeply etched into his forehead.  He gently tapped
      the pipe with his head, remembering trying to get a reluctant
      wristwatch working by giving it a gentle nudge.  Even though it was
      only five in the morning, the day hardly seemed worth continuing.
         The alarm clock had failed to signal the new morning, the bread
      wrapper was emptier than the sugar canister, and his asthmatic pickup
      truck had gone on strike.  He had cursed the alarm clock, then
      remembered that he had not pulled the pin.  He cursed the empty bread
      and sugar containers, wishing he had remembered to buy groceries the
      night before.  He simply shook his head at the expired pick up, knowing
      it would take major surgery to bring it back to life.
         All in all, his day was in the toilet before it started.  Ray had
      rummaged through the mound of dirty clothes for his least soiled jeans
      and wriggled into them.  His skinny buttocks clenched and relaxed as he
      dug a clean tee shirt out of the laundry basket.  At least he wouldn't
      have to wear yesterday's underwear.  Ever since Maria had left for
      greener pastures, he had been battling to bring his life back into
      focus, no easy task since she had managed groceries, laundry, and
      meals.
         Her note had left little to his imagination; she criticized his
      sexual skills, his earning ability, and his entire life style.  While
      she had failed to mention his choice of reading material, he felt
      certain she had not left his books intact out of goodness.  Everything
      else of value had been plundered, his fishing tackle and both shotguns
      were still being held for ransom in the nearby pawn shop.
         The check he would collect at quitting time this afternoon would do
      much to ease the whirlwind she had created, but the entire day still
      waited ahead.  Ray thought cynically that the remainder was certain to
      be as exciting as the beginning.
         Totally frustrated, completely at the mercy of a world which had
      turned from well ordered to mean in the span of three days, Ray was a
      mass of raw nerve endings, wrapped precariously together with what was
      left of his sanity.
         The soft metallic sound of his head bumping the pole was somehow
      soothing.   He turned his back to the sign and renewed his thumping
      with the back of his head.  His empty belly growled a protest at being
      empty, awake, and unnoticed.  Ray rubbed his washboard ridged stomach
      and made a mental promise to invest his last seventy-five cents, what
      would remain after he paid the bus fare, in some food from the
      cafeteria at work.  The promise did little to ease the growling, but
      was all he could offer.
         When Ray stopped thumping the pole, he noticed the silence around
      him.  Accustomed to the rush and sound of the freeways at that early
      hour, the silence of the little used street was radically different.
      He leaned into the darkness and strained to hear some sound.  Silence
      answered.  Finally, a faint whisper began penetrating the quiet.  Ray
      listened and suddenly recognized the chirping of a cricket.  His smile
      was a mixture of pleasure and remembrances.  His family had once owned
      a large house with an expansive lot.  Spring mornings were always
      concert time for the crickets.  Needing something pleasant to ease the
      day's start, Ray widened his smile.
         As the sound of the small insect died, Ray looked skyward and held
      his hands up in prayer.  Stars still dotted the blackness.
         "Beam me up, Scotty...  This day's a waste, anyway."  A Star Trek
      fan for years, Ray smiled again with the old memories and the days
      which had somehow worked better than the one he was starting.
         No swirl of electrons answered the plea, but Ray had really not
      expected any.  Too bad, he thought.  I could stand a bus marked "Off
      Planet".  Ray reviewed several of his favorite scenes from Captain Kirk
      and Dr. Spock's adventures, his mind needing a rest from his own woes.
         A distant set of head lights were topped by the yellow lights that
      signaled a bus moving along the street.  Ray pushed away from the pole
      and dug in the pocket of his jeans.  Two quarters slipped from his
      fingers and tinkled into obscurity alongside the sidewalk.  Ray glanced
      toward the arriving bus, decided he had time and stepped into the
      gutter to retrieve his coins.  He worked with one hand, waving his need
      for transportation with the other.  His fingers closed over the second
      quarter just as the approaching vehicle hissed to a stop in front of
      him.  He had failed to see the unusual shape of the torpedo like
      vehicle before him, having been engaged in a search of the dark street
      for his quarters.  The door flapped open and the driver smiled down
      toward Ray.
         "You wavin' for a ride, Mister?"
         "Sure was.  Be better if you were headin' up, but I guess
      Westmorland Avenue will have to do.  Been a rough morning."
         "Hop aboard, we'll see what we can do."
         Ray nodded, mounted the steps, and dropped the two quarters into the
      driver's hand, there being no coin box.  He moved down the aisle of the
      bus, surprised that he was the only passenger.
         "Best buckle up," the driver called over his shoulder, while he
      closed the door and eased the vehicle forward.  "This old thing gets a
      little rough, sometimes."  He examined the coins, smiled, and slipped
      them into a pocket of his vest.
         "Will do..."  Ray selected a seat, snapped the seat belt, and
      settled down for the three mile ride ahead.  He ignored the unusualness
      of seat belts on a bus, reasoning that they were involved in wrecks,
      too.  Besides, he thought, you haven't ridden a bus in years.
         "Beam us up, Scotty."  Ray softly repeated his request, adding the
      driver of the bus to the list of those needing dematerialization.
         The bus swayed, rocked across a street crossing, and then smoothed
      out as if riding on a perfectly flat surface.  Ray was grateful for the
      smoothness, since his head had begun pulsating its share of agony to
      his temples.  He scanned the signs along the sides of the bus trying to
      ignore his head and the renewed protests about food shortages still
      rumbling from his middle.
         Ray's eyes worked forward, finally noticing the destination sign
      posted inside, for those who might catch a ride on the wrong bus.  His
      mind was stunned by the word he saw: "OFF"
         Suddenly, the bus surged forward with an enormous application of
      power.  The front of the bus tilted upward and all the vibrations of
      the roadway were gone.  The sensations were familiar; the same feelings
      present when an airliner was leaving the runway and entering the world
      of flight.  Ray was pressed back into his seat, unable to speak.  He
      was held in place, partly from the force of the powerful thrust of the
      bus, partly from the fear suddenly choking him.  He managed to turn his
      head toward the window and saw the lights of Los Angeles falling into a
      toyland scenario below him.  He watched wings unfold from beneath the
      bus and snap into position, adding to the lift of the climbing vehicle.
      Questions flashed across his mind in rapid succession.  None were close
      to answers, as the thrust increased and threatened to push him into
      blackness.
         I'm gonna get some answers pretty soon, he pledged to himself.  Just
      as soon as this dream is over.  He was certain that he was still in
      bed, fast asleep.  Nothing else made any sense.
         Minutes ticked slowly away, as the thrust kept him pushed firmly
      against the seat cushions.  Ray was forced to wait.  Finally, the roar
      of what ever was powering the bus eased, the flesh of his face relaxed
      back into its normal creases, and Ray unlocked his seat belt.  Now, he
      thought.  Now I get some answers.
         He pushed out of his seat and went directly to the roof of the bus,
      banging his head sharply and sending images of unknown star systems
      flashing in pinpoints of pain across his mind.
         "Please keep your seat, sir.  We'll be at Base Station soon."  The
      driver smiled into his rearview mirror.  New technicians are always
      nervous on their first return trip, he thought.  Next time he'll do
      better.
         The driver studied the awkward movements of his passenger and
      relaxed when he was safely strapped back into his seat.  He unclipped
      the microphone from the dash of the shuttle and keyed the talk button.
         "Shuttle Number Two in orbit.  Estimated rendezvous in thirty
      minutes.  Request landing clearance."
         Static crackled in the speaker, a softly feminine voice answered the
      call, but the words escaped Ray's ears.  He strained to hear and could
      only make out the driver's voice.
         "One passenger, a technician who flagged me down just before lift
      off.  He seems to have lost his identification disk, as well.  He
      offered some Earth coins instead.  Someone better caution him about
      loosing company property."
         More feminine whispers answered.  The driver snapped his eyes back
      to the rearview mirror, studied Ray, and returned to his control panel.
         "I don't understand either, control.  He could be human, but his
      signal was correct, including leaning over while he waved.  I thought
      he was one of our research technicians.  The Old Man is gonna have a
      fit.  Looks like I should have stayed in bed and let someone else make
      this morning's run.  It's gonna be one of those days..."

